The Fifth Pip
by magic10
Summary: An alternate ending to 'The Great Game.' Sherlock and Moriarty don't meet face to face. Sherlock is given one more case to solve otherwise John dies.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I absolutely loved the BBC show Sherlock and I thought the ending was great as well. However, I would have preferred it if Moriarty's identity had remained a secret. Therefore, I decided to write this story where Sherlock does not meet Moriarty but is given one more mystery to solve otherwise John will die. I hope you enjoy.

I've no idea where my ideas come from. Evil plot bunnies are devouring my soul. Blame it on them.

DISCLAIMER: Obviously I don't own this. Conan Doyle came up with Sherlock Holmes. The BBC owns the modern version and I got the idea for the mystery by watching The Mentalist.

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The Fifth Pip

Sherlock Holmes walked into the swimming pool room, through the double doors of the emergency exit at the end of the room, brimming with confidence as the clock struck 12. He looked as smart as ever in his long flowing coat with his favourite scarf wrapped loosely around his throat. Anyone who knew Sherlock well, granted he could count those people on one hand, would be able to see the excitement in his normally expressionless face; his grey eyes shone with the challenge that awaited him and the corners of his mouth turned up very slightly at the edges, giving his almost porcelain pale face a rare glow. He walked forward with his hands behind his back in a relaxed manner, hiding the memory stick from the view of anyone in the apparently empty room. Reaching the edge of the pool Sherlock spun of the spot and looked around the 'empty' room with interest.

'Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present,' Sherlock declared holding up the memory stick in his right hand and turning back to the room at large. 'That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this,' he said confidently and slightly condescendingly… basically his normal voice. As he turned around again, Sherlock heard a door open half way down the room. He smiled briefly turning round expecting to meet Moriarty face to face for the first time. He was _wrong_. From the doorway set half way down the room, between the changing cubicles and on the left side of the pool entered the last person Sherlock had expected; John Watson.

John stood there, face expressionless with his hands in the pocket of a thick green coat with a fake fur lining hood. Sherlock's reaction was for once complete surprise and confusion. The last time he had seen John was him leaving their flat in Baker Street to meet his girlfriend Sarah. What was he doing here?

'Evening,' John said with no expression in his voice. Sherlock stared opened mouthed at John not saying anything. As the arm holding the memory stick lowered slightly, his brain could not come up with any reasonable explanation for what was happening.

'This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock,' John continued in a flat voice standing perfectly still.

'John! What the hell…?' Sherlock asked all the cockiness and self-assurance gone.

'Bet you never saw this coming.' Sherlock lowered his arm completely and took a few small steps towards the one person he had ever considered a friend. This was all wrong and for a single second Sherlock wondered if John _was_ Moriarty all along but then reality returned in the most horrible way possible as John continued to speak.

'What… would you like me to make him say… next?' he asked removing his, black gloved, hands from his pockets and pulling back the coat to reveal what was hidden beneath. John was wearing a boom jacket like Moriarty's other prisoners and the red dot of a sniper rifle moved onto his chest pointed at him from someone Sherlock could not see hidden above and behind him. Sherlock was seized with fear for his friend. It didn't bother him at all that if the bomb went off, he would die too. Before John had entered his life Sherlock had longed for death, for a release from the boredom of his life. But after John had become a part of his life this had changed. He had something to live for apart from the next case and, though he still did not fear death, he no longer longed for it. Sherlock walked towards John searching the room quickly for signs of anyone else.

'Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear,' John said his voice breaking slightly with fear on the last words.

'Stop it,' Sherlock commanded the person controlling John in a firm voice, a slight hint of anger. Whoever was controlling John ignored him.

'Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him.' Sherlock had almost reached John now. 'I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart.' He froze a few metres away. He could hear the slight quiver in John's voice now and see the fear on his face. He felt sick. How could this have happened? Fact; Sherlock had let John leave earlier without telling him his plan to protect him. Deduction; Moriarty or one of the people had captured John to use him against Sherlock. Conclusion; if Sherlock had not cared about John he would be in less danger or, better yet, if they had never met, John would be safe. In that moment Sherlock hated himself. His life was dangerous and he had let one of the few people he cared about get involved. If John died, it wouldn't be because of Moriarty. It would be because of Sherlock. Sooner or later, someone would have used John to get to him. Moriarty had simply been the first in line.

'Who are you?' Sherlock asked as he turned around searching the shadows again. His voice was strong despite the fear he felt.

'You already know who I am,' John said repeating the words that were being spoken to him though a small ear peice.

'Stop using John to talk to me! Face me properly,' Sherlock almost yelled and for once he sounded truly angry.

'Temper, temper Sherlock,' came the reply. 'You don't get to meet me yet the game's not over. Five pips, you know how it works.' John's voice was steadier now. Despite the fact that John was wearing a bomb jacket and had to repeat everything, a mass murderer wanted him to say, John was not that scared. No, that was a lie. He was terrified but he as in Afghanistan and the case of _The Blind Banker,_ he was more worried about other people's lives being in danger rather than his own.

'But I found the Bruce-Parington plans. That was what this was all about, wasn't it?' Sherlock said, a note of something that could have been desperation entering his voice as he held up the memory stick.

'Oh… the missile plans,' said John in a flat tone but his face showed how scared he really was. His face was pale and sweaty and his eyes were full of dread, 'Boring. I could get that anywhere. Throw it in the pool for all I care.'

'Then what do you want?' Sherlock asked in confusion.

'I want to watch you dance Sherlock. You're so entertaining. I have one more mystery for you to solve. Can you save your loyal lap dog, Sherlock? Are you up to the challenge?

'I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you. I've been kind up until this point. I've given you clues and easy tasks so far but this time you're on your own, as people like us always are, no more help from me. Can you solve the case Sherlock?'

At that moment the pink phone in Sherlock's pocket beeped announcing he had a message. Sherlock pulled it out. The message was a single pip and the picture of a severed hand. As Sherlock looked at the image on the screen John started talking again.

'I have loved this, this little game of ours. Did you like the little touch of using a child last time?'

'People have died,' said Sherlock angrily. He had told the truth earlier when he told John that he didn't care about the people whose lives were in danger but he hadn't explained what he meant. People's lives were inconsequential. He had not cared about any of the people as individuals but life was important and trying to save them had been important to him even if emotionally he did not care.

'That's what people do,' Moriarty answered though John. It seemed terribly wrong to Sherlock that the words came from John's mouth even though they were not his words. John cared about everyone and he was being forced to say things that went completely against his nature.

'I must say I'm glad I saved John Watson for last. I got by far the best reaction from you this time. Doctor Watson is so much fun. I can make him say anything like- _I hate you Sherlock Holmes if it wasn't for you ruining my life I'd be happy right now. I wish we had never met._' John's eyes widened in horror at the words he was being forced to say and he shook his head slightly to show it wasn't true. '_You hurt people Sherlock. Everything you touch dies and you don't even care._'

'Stop it!' Sherlock almost shouted. He knew that this was all his fault and even if John would never say something like that and probably didn't even think it, it didn't stop the words being true or hurting.

'You know what Sherlock? You're right. Your faithful little pet dog would never say something like that. How about- _Sherlock I'm sorry. They attacked me from behind and knocked me unconscious. When I woke up I tried to fight but there was nothing I could do. I was told you'd be shot if I disobeyed. I'm sorry._ Does that sound more like the good doctor?'

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and gave himself a moment to get his emotions in order. 'Stop playing Moriarty. If you have something to say then say it,' he said in a firm voice.

'Fine. Sometimes you're no fun Sherlock. You have two days to solve the case. No more and no less. It is not the bomb you need to worry about, Sherlock. I will let you get rid of it in a minute. I have injected Fido with a biological weapon when he was unconscious.' Sherlock was horrified. 'It is a new sort of disease. Don't worry, it's not contagious. I got it from our good old friends in the USA. They really are quite creative when it comes to weapons.' Sherlock looked closely at John again and this time wondered if his pale and sweaty face weren't just to do with fear.

'You were right, by the way, I have been repeating myself. This will be the third poisoning but I just couldn't resist. It's a very nasty disease. He has two days to receive the antidote. You will get if you solve the case but after that it will be two late. If he dose not receive the antidote within two days, he will die slowly and painfully. He could live up to five days after the original two but my guess would be two or three days tops as his immune system has been weakened by his time in Afghanistan. If you ask me, the kindest thing to do if it gets to that stage is kill him. That's what people do with sick animals, after all; they get put down.'

'I will stop you,' Sherlock vowed. This man could not be allowed to continue no matter what.

'No you won't. Anyway… rules- you can't tell anyone about the disease. If you do then the antidote gets smashed. You're not to try and find me in any way during this case. If you do the antidote gets smashed. Do not take the good doctor to a hospital or try to find a cure. You will fail and the antidote will be smashed. The rest is up to you. You can tell the police anything you like about the bomb, you can use their help to solve the case if you like, you can even use Doctor Watson's help if you want… while he can still help that is. I really don't care but break my rules and he dies.' Sherlock nodded excepting this information.

'Your time starts now. Good luck and goodbye.' The red dot disappeared from John's chest. Sherlock waited a moment before racing forward and started to yank the bomb vest of John.

'All right? Are you all right?' he asked, panic in his voice as he no longer bothered to try and hide his emotions. John was breathing a sigh of relief.

'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,' John said his voice of no longer devoid of emotion. Sherlock continued to pull at the straps of the jacket feverishly. 'I'm fine. Sherlock…Sherlock!' He finally succeeded in getting the bomb off John and flung it as far away from them as he could. Sherlock was breathing heavily. He turned and ran to the door that John had first entered through and looked though it for some sign of who had been controlling events. There was none. John took a few steps forward to follow Sherlock and stumbled.

'Oh, Christ,' John muttered as he staggered and then collapsed against one of the changing cubicles. He leaned against it trying to catch his breath. As Sherlock came back John winced slightly in pain at the pressure behind his eyes and the pounding in his head.

'Are you alright?' John asked, which to him seemed the most important question.

'Me? Yeah, yeah. I'm fine,' Sherlock said in a rush. He moved towards the bomb and kneeled down beside it as he started to disconnect it. John could tell Sherlock was anything but fine so to lighten the mood he said,

'I'm glad no one saw that.'

'Mmm?'

'You ripping off my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk,' he said.

'They do little else,' Sherlock said in a slightly calmer voice as he disconnected the last wire. John gave a weak grin and laugh but Sherlock didn't. He felt miserable John was dying and he was still the one trying to cheer up Sherlock. By all rights, John should hate him. The fact that he still cared about Sherlock made everything somehow worse. At least if John hated him would be being punished in some way.

'I will get the antidote,' Sherlock vowed and then he said something John had not expected Sherlock to ever say. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault,' John said fervently as he struggled to his feet. John ran a quick check of his health; heart rate raised probably caused by the adrenaline in his system, a pounding headache and pain behind his eyes probably caused by being knocked out and he was exhaustion but then he hadn't slept much recently. Apart from that he felt fine.

'What are we going to do with the bomb?' John asked.

'Hide it,' said Sherlock promptly. 'If I show it to the police it will only waste time. I need to solve this case.'

'You can't just hide it Sherlock! What if it goes off?' Sherlock rolled his eyes. Even at a time like this he couldn't resist a condescending lecture.

'It won't go off John, I've deactivated it.' At that moment Sherlock's normal phone beeped a message. On it was the message-

_Sherlock._

_Need ur help._

_Found severed hand by London Eye._

_Lestrade_

'It looks like the hand has been found. So at least I have somewhere to start.'

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AN: Thanks, as always, go to my sister who somehow manages to make sense of my crazy ramblings and now hopefully you can too. If not, I blame my sister :p I'm not sure if this story is any good. If you want me to continue, please comment. If not, then comment anyway and tell me why you don't like this story. So long as it's got constructive criticism in, I don't mind you commenting to say my story is rubbish.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: WOW, just wow. I got 12 reviews, 13 favourites and 25 alerts for the first chapter. That's way more than I have ever got for anything else. I hope the second chapter meets your expectations.

Sorry it took a bit to update. My sister, who betas for me, went on holiday. She is back now.

Special thanks go to AirSpirit and my sister who both helped beat my story.

I've no idea where my ideas come from. Evil plot bunnies are devouring my soul. Blame it on them.

DISCLAIMER: Obviously I don't own this. Conan Doyle came up with Sherlock Holmes. The BBC owns the modern version and I got the idea for the mystery by watching The Mentalist.

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Chapter 2

After quickly visiting 221B Baker Street and hiding the bomb vest there, John and Sherlock set off to meet Lestrade. They took a taxi. As they sat silently in the back, Sherlock's mind was in turmoil. The emotions he normally suppressed were almost tearing him apart. He was scared, nervous, angry, confused even, but the worst emotion of all, the one that made this situation unbearable, was the _excitement_.

Sherlock was disgusted at himself but the truth was a small part of him still loved the challenge Moriarty was giving him. If given the choice, of course Sherlock would swap this situation, for one with no Moriarty if it would make John safe. However, even with John's life in danger, Sherlock's mind thrilled at the thought of an equal.

But why did it have to be John? It should be anyone but John. John did not deserve this. Sherlock suddenly realised how much of a flawed he was. No one Moriarty had used had deserved it but that had not bothered Sherlock. He had tried to save them but he did not care. He had loved it.

Once again, Sherlock tried to picture the mysterious Moriarty but now, with horror, he found that he no longer saw a shadowy person just out of view. He saw himself. Yes, Sherlock hated himself because he was just like Moriarty. In his mind Moriarty became nothing more than a twisted reflection of himself. It was like looking in a fairground mirror. Different sides of the mirror, the reflection twisted so it no longer seemed human, but still the same person.

The Sherlock/Moriarty in his mind smiled a twisted, cruel smile and whispered in his mind '_You finally understand Sherlock. It took you long enough.'_ Sherlock felt sick.

Glancing sideways Sherlock saw that John was leaning his head back and breathing heavily and unsteadily. He looked very pale. Deathly pale.

'Are you alright, John?' Sherlock asked, the concern he felt appearing in his voice for once. He already knew the answer but something compelled him to ask anyway. John forced his eyes open and his breath to become more even when he heard Sherlock's voice.

No, he wasn't all right. If anything the pain in his head was worsening rather than improving. That probably meant that it wasn't to do with being knocked out but was do to whatever had been put in his system. On top of that, his chest felt very tight, as if he had been running, making it hard to breathe. John had absolutely no intention of telling Sherlock any of this.

'Fine, Sherlock,' John reassured. 'Just a bit tired. I haven't had much sleep recently.' This was true. John didn't mention his other symptoms. He couldn't bear the look in his friend's eyes. He hated to think he was causing Sherlock pain and at the moment Sherlock looked like he was drowning in worry for John. It probably made no difference. Sherlock could always see straight through him.

'Hmm,' Sherlock said unconvinced.

Sherlock had wanted John to stay at 221B Baker Street but Mrs. Hudson was visiting her family and he didn't want John left alone. John had refused to let Sherlock go alone anyway. Now John wondered if he had been wrong to insist on coming. His presence was obviously causing problems for Sherlock and John didn't want to be a distraction.

'Do you hate me John?' Sherlock asked suddenly startling John out of his thoughts. There was desperation in his voice. Sherlock really needed to know.

'No! Why on earth would you think that?' John asked in confusion.

'Because this is my fault,' Sherlock whispered miserably. He knew very little about what people were supposed to feel and when but he knew enough to know that John should hate him now.

'Is this because Moriarty made me say I blamed you?' John asked. 'You know I didn't mean it. If I was given the choice, right now, to go back and never meet you I wouldn't take it. I mean obviously I'd change this last bit but that's all. I enjoy this life even if I could do with more sleep and food most of the time.'

'Do you hate me for being a monster then?' That one completely threw John.

'What are you talking about?' he asked in confusion. Then his eyes widened as he understood.

'You're nothing like him Sherlock,' he said fervently. 'You solve crimes, he creates them. You help people, he hurts them. You are opposites.'

Even John saying that made Sherlock feel slightly better. John's misplaced faith made everything seem alright for a moment. He knew John was wrong but didn't bother to argue. John would only disagree and he liked the imaginary version of himself that John believed in. He could never be that person but suddenly he wished he could be.

When all this was over and John was well again – and that was a definite _when_ not _if_ - Sherlock vowed he would work on becoming more like the person John believed him to be. He realised that he needed John Watson. The world needed more John Watson's. The John Watson's of the world stopped the Sherlock Holmes' becoming Moriarty's. They sat in silence for the rest of the journey.

As the taxi pulled up at the crime scene, Sherlock took a deep breath and forced himself to control his emotions. He could not get rid of them but he could stop them from controlling him. This was not the time to become overwhelmed. He needed a clear head to solve the case and save John.

Sherlock instructed the driver to wait for them for ten minutes before jumping out of the taxi. However, rather than running to go under the police cordon, he waited for John and they walked together. He couldn't decide if it had been a mistake to bring John. Maybe he should have left him with his sister Harry. That would have meant he could run around like normal and possibly solve this quicker. However, if he had left John, he would be even more worried about him and he could not afford distractions.

They walked up to the police cordon and Sergeant Donavan held it up for then with annoyance. She looked tired and irritated.

'Let's see you solve this one freak,' she said snidely and was surprised when Sherlock didn't respond in any way. He just walked past her with John shadowing as always.

'What's the matter, freak? Have you finally worked out how much we all hate you and decided to give us a break?' she called after him. 'If so, then throw yourself in the Thames and do humanity a favour.' Still there was no response from Sherlock. If Sally Donavan had thought of him as a human being, she may have suspected something was wrong but the thought didn't even occur to her.

'Sherlock, John, thanks for coming so late,' said Lestrade hurrying over to them. It was now just gone 3am.

'Not at all Lestrade. This is clearly beyond anything you can handle,' replied Sherlock somehow managing to sound like his normal condescending self. 'Besides, just before you called I received a message from our mysterious bomber with a picture of a severed hand. I think we can assume that this is the last case.' Lestrade was instantly alert.

'Has he called?' he asked dreading the answer.

'No,' said Sherlock suppressing a smile. He had just made sure that this case was at the top of the police priority list but just to be certain he added, 'I think that's significant he didn't call last time and he was using a child. I think maybe he has done something like that again.' Lestrade nodded and Sherlock allowed himself to smirk as Lestrade turned to lead the way. John smiled. He was always impressed with how his friend could handle any situation.

'What's _he_ doing here,' Anderson moaned, glaring daggers at Sherlock, as they got closer.

'_I_ invited Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson to help with the investigation,' Lestrade said in a voice that would take no argument. Anderson muttered something under his breath but stood back reluctantly to let them see a severed hand on the floor. As Sherlock bent to examine it Anderson said,

'I hate amputation cases! It takes forever to solve and you can never find all the pieces.'

'We have plenty to work with right here Anderson,' Sherlock snapped. 'Now shut up and let me do my work.'

'_Your_ work? This has nothing to do with you,' Anderson said irritably, 'Besides what exactly can you deduce from a severed hand? It's a right hand with the number 43 written on it. What else can you get from it? I bet even you can't solve this case quickly.'

'Well for a start he was a white man, mid fifties, he wrote on his right hand so he was left handed. Surely even you could figure that out.'

'Well _brilliant_, just brilliant. The case is solved,' Anderson said sarcastically. 'How do you know the killer didn't write that as some sort of message?' John shook his head. Some people never learned.

'Too faded,' Sherlock said, patronisingly without looking up, 'and the killer would write it bigger you moron. Now shut up.' Anderson opened his mouth to reply but Lestrade said,

'Be quiet Anderson.' Sherlock rose to his feet.

'He's upper management in the hotel or gaming industry,' Sherlock proclaimed confidently. Despite everything, he was in his element.

'Oh, come on!' Anderson exclaimed in anger and frustration. 'How could you possibly know that?' Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulling out his phone started an internet search. As he searched he said,

'Fact; the hand smells of sandalwood palm oil, musky cologne and tobacco. The skin is soft and the nails were professionally maintained. Deduction; he was a rich man.

'Fact; there is a faint tan line on his little finger from a missing ring. Deduction; he was an extrovert in a job where extroverts thrive…'

'Hang on,' Lestrade interrupted. 'How does wearing a ring make him an extravert?'

'The ring was on his right little finger. It wasn't a wedding ring. This means it was just for show. That would make him an extrovert. The conclusion we can draw from these facts is that he was upper management in the hotel of gaming industry.'

'That is a complete guess. You can't possibly know that!' Anderson yelled in frustration. John flinched as the loud sound sent a wave of pain though his head. Sherlock saw the look of pain on John's face and suddenly he was furious at Anderson.

'Shut up Anderson and for once let me get on with my job. People's lives depend on it,' he said in a low but deadly voice. Maybe it was the look in Sherlock's eyes but for once Anderson obeyed. Sherlock turned his back on Anderson and turned to John.

'Can you have a look John and tell me your deductions?' Sherlock asked in a much more kind voice than Lestrade and Anderson were used to hearing. John nodded and bent to examine the hand.

'The hand has been cleanly sliced though at the wrist. He was dead when the hand was cut of, you can tell by the amount on congealed blood. Murder could have been by accident or spur of the moment but the severed hand was not. Either the murder was premeditated and the hand is a sign or warning or the hand was sliced of after an unplanned death to throw us of the scent.'

John looked up to see startled faces. 'What?' he asked.

'You're spending too much time with the freak,' Anderson said. 'He's rubbing off on you.' John shrugged. He didn't care if he was becoming more observant. Surely that was a good thing? John straightened and swayed on the spot. He felt so dizzy for a moment that the world swam.

'Are you alright John? You look terrible,' Lestrade asked with concern. Sherlock looked up from his phone. He felt a new wave of fear and anger wash over him.

'Fine, fine,' John answered… too quickly. 'I'm just coming down with a little cold. That's all.' If John could put on a brave face then so could Sherlock. He looked back at his phone and completed his search. At that moment Molly came hurrying over with a file held to her chest. She opened her mouth to speak but Sherlock interrupted her,

'Don't tell me. His name is Christopher Thompson. He ran the casino in Sheraton Park Tower hotel in Knightsbridge and he was reported missing two days ago.' Anderson looked bemused but Molly just nodded.

'How…?' she asked.

'Internet search,' Sherlock replied turning to leave. 'Come along John,' and so saying Sherlock set off as brisk as possible with John ill. All Lestrade, Anderson and Molly could do was watch them go with confusion.

They approached the police cordon and Donavan held it up for them.

'Solved the case yet freak?' she asked in a voice that dripped venom. Sherlock ignored her and kept walking.

'Hay John,' she called after them. 'Have you thought any more about taking up fishing as a hobby instead of hanging out with Sherlock? It would be better for your health.' John winced at her words because they would hurt Sherlock. Sherlock looked back at her, for a moment, before continuing and she took an involuntary step back. She must have imagined the look on his face because Sherlock would never look like that. For a moment, she had thought that his face was filled with so much pain it looked as if it was burning him… but she knew Sherlock was a cold hearted bastard and emotions that strong would never appear on his face. It would make him too human. Sally Donavan shook her head and dismissed the thought.

'Freak,' she muttered.

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AN: Sherlock might be a bit OOC in this chapter. I just wanted to get across how conflicted he was but I'm slightly worried I've done a terrible job. Tell me if I have and I'll rewrite this chapter. As always, please review so I know what you like or don't like and can hopefully improve.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Sorry it took so long to update. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story, especially thanks to those who reviewed, I really appreciate it and it helps a lot. Thanks as always go to my sister my my beta Arisprite who had the patience to turn my badly written chapter into something hopefully enjoyable.

A few people have asked whether this story is slash. The answer is probably not. I don't think it's going to become slash but I always go where the story takes me. This chapter could be seen as pre-slash but I just think it's them being friends.

Blame the evil plot bunnies who are devouring my soul for this story, not me.

DISCLAIMER: See previous chapters. Do I really need to put a disclaimer anyway? This is a fan fiction website, what do you expect?

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Chapter 3

'Take us to 52 Hans Place, Knightsbridge,' Sherlock ordered, sliding into the back of the taxi followed by John. The driver set off without comment. John and Sherlock sat in silence again, Sherlock lost in thought.

Sherlock felt completely overwhelmed with emotions and, for once, no matter what he did he could not suppress them. If John died it would be his fault. Sherlock didn't know if he could live with himself if that happened; no, that wasn't true. He _knew_ that if John died he would be unable to go on. The funny thing was that if it was Sherlock himself who were dying he would have been emotionally unaffected but then he wasn't the important one was he?

Sherlock had been twelve when he made the conscious and thought out decision to quit trying to conform to social norms/expectations. Before that age he had made the effort to do what was expected of him and fit in with other children but it had never worked. He had been bullied and excluded because he was different. Even adults had been uncomfortable around him because he was more intelligent than they were.

One day a boy called Robert, in the year above, punched him in the stomach and called him a freak because Sherlock worked out that he was the one that had thrown a rock throw one of English room windows. The next day Robert had tripped down the stairs and broken his leg. Robert blamed him and, even though Sherlock was nowhere near him at the time, everyone believed him. Everyone his age was scared of him and no one would listen to reason. So he had decided not to try. If he was going to be treated like a _freak_ anyway then why bother? Suddenly, just like that, he had stopped caring what others thought of him. Since then Sherlock had become the high-functioning sociopath that he was today. Emotions had been suppressed and pure logic had taken their place. Which he had been fine with.

Then John had come along and somehow he had wormed his way into Sherlock's frozen heart. He had begun to thaw. The notoriously cold detective had begun to care about someone else. John was the only real friend Sherlock had ever known. Before John, Sherlock had not even known he was lonely. He only ever been alone and so had not missed the company of others. He had not known how empty his life was.

If John died, Sherlock would no longer hide from his emotions. He would let them burn him until everything that made him Sherlock Holmes was gone. He would let that happen without a fight because he deserved it whatever the outcome. _Not going to happen,_ he thought angrily. _John will survive. He has to._

Sherlock glanced out of the window and then looked again.

'You're going the wrong way,' he said irritably to the taxi driver. How long had they been going in the wrong direction? Sherlock realised he didn't know. He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed. He would have to pay more attention. There was no time for delays.

'Sorry Mr Holmes,' said the driver apologetically, 'I've got to take you both to meet someone from the government. The order came through while you were out of the car before.'

Sherlock cursed under his breath. Of all the times for his brother to interfere this was the worst.

'We don't have time for this!' he almost yelled.

'We're almost there Mr Holmes,' the driver replied patiently. Sherlock turned to John who looked, if possible, even paler than ever.

'John, when we arrive, stay in the car. I can't risk Mycroft working out what Moriarty has done.' Sherlock could not bear the thought of Moriarty letting John die because Mycroft figured out what the problem was. This was something that Mycroft couldn't fix.

John just nodded. They lapsed back into silence. Sherlock wondered what John was thinking and how he was feeling. He didn't bother to ask because he knew John would only lie. John was one of the few people Sherlock had trouble reading. When they had fist met Sherlock could tell his past and his relationship with his sibling with a brief glance and a look at John's phone. However he had not seen what sort of man John was.

John made no sense. He was a puzzle that Sherlock would probably never unravel. He did all the things normal people did like buy food, clean up the house and go out with women but he was also brave and loyal. Why did he put up with Sherlock? He knew he wasn't an easy person to live with but for some reason John put up with him and even seemed to like him. He knew that he satisfied John's need for danger but there were plenty of ways to fulfil that need without him.

Normal people were unnerved by his deductive powers and told him to '_piss off_.' John was impressed by his talents. When Sherlock had first explained how he knew so much about John on the way to a crime scene he had said '_that is amazing._' Sherlock had thought for a moment that John was being sarcastic but his praise had been genuine. He always found it strange that John seemed genuine when he complemented him. Sherlock was much more used to being called a freak and then attacking and belittling that person. He was not really sure how to react to praise. However Sherlock didn't think he would ever stop enjoying the fact that John remained impressed by his skills.

Sherlock had been astonished when John had shot the taxi driver during 'A study in pink,' as John had called it, to protect him. John had continued to astound Sherlock. Sherlock vowed that John would have the chance to continue to amaze him.

The taxi pulled up at an old block of flats that were apparently due for demolition next month, according to the sign on the railings.

'In there,' the driver instructed pointing to the open door of the apparently abandoned building. Sherlock stepped out into the cool early morning air. John shivered as the breeze touched him.

'I'll be back soon,' Sherlock promised before closing the door behind him. John watched him go. He felt useless. As always he could do nothing to help. Sherlock always ran around everywhere and often solve a case with nothing more than a glance, cases which baffled the police. What could John do? This case was worse than normal because John wasn't just useless; he was a liability and a distraction.

Now that he was alone, not counting the taxi driver, John allowed a moan of pain to escape though his lips. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as his breath became ragged. His head felt like it was about to explode and now he also had severe abdominal pain. He moved slightly trying to get more comfortable and cried out in pain. The small movement had sent a shock of pain though his system. The only way he could describe the pain was by comparing it to a knife being shoved deep into stomach.

'You Okay?' asked the driver. John opened his eyes and managed to nod. The driver looked unconvinced. 'You don't look good. Do you want me to take you home, when your friend gets back? Alternately I could take you to the hospital?' John shook his head.

'I'm fine,' he croaked. There was no way he could keep this from Sherlock.

John was so tired now. This was not just exhaustion from the last few days. This went deeper into his very bones. He wanted nothing more than to succumb to his need for sleep but he fought against it. If he fell asleep now he did not know if he would wake up again. How could you be in so much pain and still have room to feel tired? The only time John had felt this tired was after being shot. His body just wanted to shut down and repair but if it did it may have stopped altogether. He didn't trust Moriarty when he said two days. John seriously doubted he had that long but Sherlock didn't need to know that.

John wondered, once again, why Sherlock bothered with him. He wasn't clever or interesting; he was just normal and boring. In fact, he was everything that Sherlock hated but for some unknown reason Sherlock seemed to like him.

When they had first met, John had assumed that Sherlock needed help paying the rent. That was the natural assumption seeing as Sherlock was looking for a flat mate. That idea was quickly discarded as Sherlock clearly had no problem with money.

Next John wondered if he was there just to annoy Anderson and Donavan. That didn't seem to fit however as Sherlock seemed to respect John's opinion more than others (even if most of the time he told John he was an idiot.)

Then he wondered if Sherlock just wanted someone to look after him. John did all the housework and often had to remind Sherlock that even geniuses needed to eat. Mrs. Hudson, despite being a landlady _not_ a housekeeper, always fulfilled that role when John spent the night at Sarah's so that couldn't be it.

In the end John had decided that Sherlock was lonely and appreciated John's company. It was a strange thought that Sherlock actually liked him being around but it was the only explanation John could find.

Almost everyone had warned John to stay away from Sherlock. They said life with him was dangerous - well that was true - and that Sherlock was a cold person who didn't care about anyone; in that respect John knew they were wrong. Sherlock was in no way heartless; he just seemed incapable of expressing his emotions like normal people but then again, Sherlock was in no way normal.

Sometimes John pitied Sherlock. He wondered what it was like to be Sherlock. He thought it was probably like being surrounded by children and being the only adult; alone in a room full of people, no one understanding him or even trying. Sherlock always looked so grateful and surprised when John complemented him that John wondered if he was perhaps the first person to do so. Sometimes at night, on the rare occasion that Sherlock actually slept, John heard him crying in his sleep. It seemed John was not the only one to suffer from nightmares.

John knew that he would never doubt that Sherlock cared about him again. Sherlock had looked so scared when he pulled the bomb off him. Every time John looked at him now, it seemed Sherlock was breaking. It hurt John to watch his best friend cracking because of him. He didn't know how everyone else could miss it. Lestrade had known Sherlock for years but he had not seen the pain in Sherlock's eyes.

Against his will, John's eyes slid shut and his body succumbed to the sleep he had been fighting all day. It wasn't a painless, dreamless sleep. John's body jerked and twitched as pain racked his body. He screamed from a mixture of pain and horror as he was plunged into a nightmare of death, blood and war.

The taxi driver had just decided to take his passenger to hospital when Sherlock came sprinting out of the building and threw himself into the back of the car.

* * *

**Ten minutes earlier**

'In there,' the driver instructed, pointing to the open door of the apparently abandoned building. Sherlock stepped out into the cool early morning air, deciding it was better to get this over with. If not, his brother would only keep delaying him until Sherlock spoke to him.

'I'll be back soon,' Sherlock promised before closing the door behind him. He hurried in though the open door into the entrance hall that had peeling paper on the mouldy walls. There was nothing there except for an old worn door at the end of the room with the words supply closet, an old staircase and a lift with an out of order sign stuck on the closed door. Sherlock looked around but could see no sign of his brother. He turned to leave but at that moment the supply closet door opened and Mycroft stuck his head out.

'Sherlock,' he acknowledged, 'so good of you to join me. Please come in.' To Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock came straight over without a word of complaint. Sherlock was unsurprised to find that the _supply closet_ was actually much larger than it appeared from the outside and furnished like a comfortable living room. 'Not Anthea' stood quietly in the corner texting.

'Please take a seat,' said Mycroft, politely pointing to an expensive looking arm chair. Sherlock sat down. 'Is Dr. Watson not joining us today?' Sherlock shook his head.

'What do you want?' Sherlock asked straight to the point. He did not like talking to his brother at the best of times but today he had no time to verbally spar with Mycroft. If Mycroft was surprised by Sherlock's abrupt manner he gave no sign. He sat down opposite his brother, a table with a delicate china tea set and a plate of cakes between them. He looked totally relaxed, leaning forward in his chair, his hands pressed together under his chin as if in thought and his ever present umbrella propped againest the chair.

'Help yourself,' he offered gesturing to the table. Sherlock just stared at him. Mycroft sighed. 'The missile plans, Sherlock. I know the memory stick you gave me was real. I want to know what you offered Moriarty.' Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'You pulled me half way across the city, in the middle of the night, to ask me that?' Sherlock answered angrily. A brief look of surprise flashed across Mycroft's face at Sherlock's tone but a moment later it was gone. 'I was going to give him a fake obviously! I don't have time for your games right now Mycroft. Please leave me alone.' Sherlock stood to leave.

'What happened at the swimming pool Sherlock?' Mycroft asked. 'I know you went in alone but you came out with John and a bomb. Now you're trying to solve another case. I need to know what's going on.' Mycroft actually sounded concerned so Sherlock reluctantly sat back down. He closed he eyes and rubbed his forehead.

'Moriarty wasn't there,' Sherlock said, not looking at Mycroft as he spoke, 'John was strapped to a bomb and now I _need_ to solve this crime.' Sherlock offered no further explanation and no reason for why he had to solve this case but Mycroft was struck by how emotional his little brother was. Sherlock had always hidden his emotions behind a mask of impassiveness and arrogance. Now he sounded scared and lost. His shoulders shook slightly and Mycroft thought he may even have seen a tear squeeze between Sherlock's closed eyes. If he did it was quickly wiped away and when Sherlock looked up at him the mask was back in place.

'Why did you leave Dr. Watson in the taxi?' Mycroft asked in a calm, professional voice that betrayed none of his thoughts. He did not mention Sherlock's abnormal show of emotion and Sherlock was grateful.

'No one is allowed to know what Moriarty has done and I couldn't risk you working it out,' Sherlock replied. Suddenly anger and betrayal flashed across Sherlock's face. 'Why did you let them take John?' he yelled. 'You have us under constant surveillance. Why didn't you do anything?' Mycroft was taken aback at his brother's outburst.

'I did not realise he had be taken,' Mycroft admitted reluctantly. He hated admitting that he had made a mistake, especially to Sherlock. 'His tail lost him in a crowded street. I didn't think anything of it at the time. Having just sent an invitation to a master criminal, you were the priority.'

Sherlock was silent for a moment as all his anger was replaced by fear. Moriarty was even more powerful than he thought if he had managed to kidnap John from right under Mycroft's noise without his knowledge.

'What can I do to help?' Mycroft asked and, for once, he had no ulterior motive and wanted nothing in return for the genuine offer of help.

'Just make sure no one gets in my way. I need to solve this quickly.' The fact that Sherlock was accepting his help told Mycroft, more than anything else, just how much trouble his brother and friend were in. He nodded.

'Consider it done.' Sherlock rose for his chair and was just turning to leave when 'not Anthea' coughed to gain their attention. Both men turned to look.

'Before you go Mr Holmes,' she said, looking at Sherlock, 'I'm just receiving a message for you.' Mycroft watched as Sherlock visibly paled.

'What does it say and who's it from,' Sherlock croaked. He already knew who it would be but hoped that he was wrong.

'The number is withheld. It says '_Well done so far Sherlock. You're doing well. Good boy for not telling your brother what I've done. To be honest I don't care if he knows that I've poisoned your little pet. However I would have had to let him die if you had been the one to tell Mycroft the truth. Rules are rules after all. Luckily for both of us you didn't. It would really have spoiled my fun. I'm really enjoying our game. Are you?_'

Mycroft was stunned. How could this Moriarty know what was happening in this room and how had he managed to avoid Mycroft's attention until now? He looked over at Sherlock and saw his brother swaying on the spot. So this was what Sherlock had refused to tell him. 'Not Anthea' continued to read,

'_I'm just texting to say I think I was wrong when I gave you two days._' Sherlock felt his stomach drop in horror and fear. '_The good Doctor seems to be reacting quicker to the solution than expected. He is already starting to fall unconscious for the first time. That shouldn't happen until the end of the first day. So basically I don't know how long he has left. He isn't unconscious yet, just asleep. It doesn't look like he is comfortable though. I suggest waking him up. The longer he is awake the longer he is fighting. Best hurry is my advice. While you are here having a cosy chat with your dear brother, Johnny boy is dying._'

Sherlock scrambled towards the door as quickly as he could. He heard, just as he reached the door and dived though, 'not Anthea' read the words '_Good luck Sherlock._' Mycroft watch his brother run like a frightened rabbit before standing.

'_T, _make sure no one gets in Sherlock's way and have the room checked for bugs.' She nodded and went back to texting completely unaffected by what had just happened.

* * *

AN: I hope I managed to keep Mycroft in character. He's quite a difficult character to pin down. Please tell me if you think I got anything wrong. I really appreciate all the support everyone's given me with this story and as always I will try to reply to all reviews. Hope you enjoyed. I'm going to bring out a one shot from Moriarty's point of view on what has happened in the story so far. It will be called 'The Attention Of A God'


	4. Chapter 4

AN: I suck. I am sorry that it took so long to put this up. Reasons include being ill, computer breaking, being banned from computer, writer's block and feeling too tired after working 40 hours a week in a nursery (my job). But I am sorry it took so long and could probably have posted something sooner if I'd really tried. Warning: this chapter hasn't been betad yet. I am sending it off to my beta and will repost but wanted to get this up rather than making you wait any longer. Hope it was worth the wait.

DISCLAIMER: See chapter 1

* * *

Chapter 4

_John's thoughts were confused. All he could see were random images - blood, death, screaming, red-stained sand. People are dying around him, men he has worked with and has come to think of as friends, and he can do nothing._ 'John. John, wake up.'_ The sound of bullets is deafening._

_Suddenly the world around him disappears and all he is aware of is the pain._ 'Wake up John.' _John looks down and sees blood. He has been shot. The bullet had entered his abdomen and he sees so much blood._ 'Wait,' some part of John thought, 'This isn't right; I was shot in the shoulder not the abdomen,' but the rest of him takes no notice.

_John was on the ground though he has no memory of falling. His blood added to the already stained sand._ 'Wake up. John, wake up!'

_He can see the sky. It is so blue and the sun is blinding but John doesn't close his eyes; he wants to see the world as he dies. He is dying he knows it. John can feel his body betraying him as it shuts down._ 'John you've got to wake up!'_ He felt his heart beat erratic and weak against his chest._

_Until this moment John hadn't want to die. Now he feels at peace. Even the pain feels far away. He is so tired._ 'Damn it, John! Wake up now!' _Why? All he wants is to sleep. _

'Please John; I'm begging you; _wake up_!' John recognised that voice. It was the unusual desperation in a voice - normally devoid of emotion and the word 'please' from a man who never asks - that made John open his eyes.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He had been shaking and calling John for almost five minutes with no response before John had finally opened his eyes. Sherlock had been terrified that John wouldn't wake at all. The worst moment had come near the end when John had stopped thrashing about wildly and his body had relaxed. Sherlock hadn't known if John was slipping into a coma or if he was dying. He had been more scared than he could ever remember being in his life.

Sherlock looked at John and tried to objectively deduce his condition but it was impossible. He couldn't think straight. John's lips were tinged blue, he was so pale he looked like a corpse and his eyes were filled with pain. Sherlock couldn't bear this!

The pain that had almost disappeared in the dream returned with a vengeance. John was confused and didn't know were he was. His eyes were unfocused. John pressed his hand to the bullet wound from his dream.

'The bullet… It won't stop bleeding… I was shot in my shoulder not my abdomen… It _hurts_…' John realised where he was and what was happening. He shut his mouth quickly but looking over at Sherlock he knew that the damage had already been done.

Sherlock felt physically sick. John had just, accidentally, told he a little of what he was suffering and Sherlock knew it was unbearable. John looked so pale and weak. He was never weak. John was always strong but now…

Sherlock tried to control his emotions but it was impossible. He wanted to break something (and preferably for that _thing_ to be Moriarty). He wanted to scream and shout. He may not be able to control his emotions but he could control his reactions. He turned to the taxi driver.

'Take us to 52 Hans Place, Knightsbridge,' he said, voice full of command.

'I think I should take your partner to hospital,' the driver said hesitantly. He was slightly scared of Sherlock as his grey-blue eyes blazed with an anger that longed for a way to express itself.

'If you take us to 52 Hans Place, Knightsbridge, he won't need the hospital,' Sherlock's voice was low and deadly. He didn't bother to correct the driver's assumption. Moriarty had said that John needed to stay awake and the best way Sherlock could ensure that was to keep John with him. He did not dare take John to hospital because Moriarty had forbidden it.

'But…'

'Just do it!' Sherlock commanded his voice seething with anger. The driver glanced at John who was trying, unsuccessfully, to control his breathing. John looked up at him.

'I'll… be fine,' John choked out between breaths. 'I left my medication… at home. They won't… have it at the hospital. Please… take us home to… 52 Hans Place, Knightsbridge… So I can have… my injection.' The driver nodded and set off. Sherlock hated that John had to be the one to come up with away to get them to their destination. John was ill and he still had to do all the work because Sherlock couldn't control his emotions.

Sherlock hated this. He hated it, hated it, HATED IT. He hated being unable to control his emotions. He hated this feeling of uselessness, at being unable to help John. He was Sherlock Holmes for God's sake! He always knew what to do.

Was this how normal people felt all the time; overwhelmed, scared, angry, confused, unable to think straight? If so then he would _never_ call it dull again. How could they bear it?

Sherlock didn't want this world. He wanted the world where everything made sense. He closed his eyes and imagined it. He and John would be on their way to solving the fifth case. Sherlock would be excited. This case was surely going to be the most difficult yet but he knew he could handle it, whatever it was. John would tell him off for not caring enough and Sherlock would listen more than he pretended to (that still wasn't much but still…). John would manage to make Sherlock feel guilty despite the fact that he would hide it; Sherlock hated disappointing John. They would solve the case together but John would let Sherlock take all the glory. They would order a takeaway and John would write a romanticized version of events in his blog…

Sherlock could see everything; their life spreading out in front of him. With his eyes squeezed shut he pretended for a moment that _that _world was real and this one wasn't. The dream world shattered like a delicate bubble as they went over a speed bump and a groan of pain escaped John's lips.

John silently cursed himself for groaning as Sherlock's eyes flew open. Sherlock looked at him for a brief second before looking away again. John cursed himself again; he had just got his breathing under control and Sherlock had looked like he was starting to relax when John had ruined it.

The look on Sherlock's face was starting to scare John now. He looked so angry. His grey-blue eyes, that were normally so emotionless, were filled with the threat of danger and extreme violence for anyone who may dare to get in his way. John actually feared for other people's safety. A lot of the anger seemed to be directed internally as if Sherlock hated himself for what was happening but John thought he must be mistaken in this deduction.

Behind the anger, in Sherlock's eyes, there was a terrible look of fear. John had never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable and he hated being the reason for putting that look in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock glanced at his watch as they finally approached the house. He swore silently when he saw it was 6:52am. As the house came into view Sherlock saw a police car parked outside. A strangled, animal like, cry of rage and anger escaped his lips. He did not know if the anger was directed at Mycroft for delaying him, the taxi driver for taking him to his brother, Lestrade for beating him there or Moriarty for causing all this or himself. He suspected it was a mixture of all of them but didn't waste time examining the emotion.

Sherlock actually paid the taxi driver for once. He then went around to John's side of the car to try and help him out. John pushed away Sherlock's offered hand and got out by himself.

'I'm perfectly capable of walking unaided, Sherlock,' John said irritably. A moment later he regretted his words as he watched hurt flash quickly across Sherlock's face. 'I should get ill more often if it means you actually pay the taxi fare for once,' he said, trying to lighten the mode. A small smile graced Sherlock's mouth for a second before disappearing again. Like a ray of sunshine breaking though the clouds, his face lit up before falling into shadow.

Sherlock's moment of peace at John's words was short lived but after John had spoken he felt slightly better. With a few simple words John had managed to drain the anger from him. This was a talent that only John possessed.

Sherlock turned his attention to the house. It was large and impressive. The location was near Sheraton Park Tower, where Christopher Thompson had worked, but that was not the only reason the man had picked this location. The house had been chosen to impress. It shouted 'Look at me! I have it made!' Christopher had obviously been a man who wanted to show rich he was. This meant that either he had come for humble beginnings or he had simple been a show off who enjoyed lording it over other people. It was probably the former but he wouldn't be sure until he entered the house.

Ignoring the empty police car parked outside, Sherlock walked up to the door and knocked. The door was opened almost instantly by Sally Donavan. Her face morphed, in less than a second, from calm and professional to angry and annoyed when she saw Sherlock on the door step with John next to him. She moved so that her body was blocking the door frame.

'You're not coming in,' she snapped looking directly at Sherlock and ignoring John. 'Mrs Thompson has just been informed of her husband's death. She, his daughter and her daughter's husband have enough to deal with without you upsetting them further.' Sherlock wanted nothing more than to push past her and not waste any more time but that probably wasn't the wisest thing to do.

'The sooner I talk to her, the sooner I can solve this murder and potentially save other lives being lost. Besides I have no intention of deliberately upsetting anyone. Now get out of my way.' Sally was almost scared by the slightly mad look in Sherlock's eyes. Gone was emotionless aloof Sherlock and in his place was an angry and possibly violent man. Despite this she stood her ground.

'No,' she answered defiantly.

'Do you seriously care more about your petty dislike of me than saving lives?'

'As if you care about that, Freak. You're not coming in.' Sherlock could have punched her and he may have done so if Lestrade hadn't come into the corridor behind Sally at that moment to see what was going on. Lestrade quickly took in the scene before him and decided to intervene.

'Sherlock, John,' he said striding forwards and gently moving Sally to the side. 'I wondered when you'd get hear. Come in.' Sally sighed in frustration and gave her DI a murderous look which he ignored. Sherlock spared her a smirk, that looked forced, as he and John entered the house.

'No upsetting them, Sherlock,' Lestrade warned as he led them down the corridor. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He decided not to dignify that with a response. Instead he looked around himself for information. Christopher Thompson had been a driven man. Several of photos on the walls showed him with a variety of celebrities but he looked uncomfortable. This meant he had come from a humble background. Possibly his father had been a farm labourer but that was just a guess. He had tried hard and succeeded in getting out of that world but he had never felt truly at ease in the world of the rich and famous. This had made him always put on an act around them and try to prove he belonged in that world too.

They entered the living room and Sherlock saw a small moderately attractive woman in her early 40's with mousey brown hair and striking green eyes filled with tears, sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair. On the sofa was a girl in her mid 20's who could only be the woman's daughter with dyed blonde hair, green eyes and so thin that she obviously suffered from an eating disorder. Her shoulder was held possessively by the man who must be her husband. He had a rugged beauty about his face. His hair was dark brown and untidy, his face had stubble on it and his eyes were a piercing blue.

"Mrs Thompson?" Sherlock asked, addressing the woman in the chair. She nodded.

"Please, call me Rachel," she said sniffing.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sherlock said solemnly. He was playing the role of a detached but caring professional as he felt this role would lead quicker to results than his normal brash manner. John simply stood watching. It always seemed strange to him when Sherlock took on a role. If Sherlock hadn't been the world's only consulting detective, John assumed he would have been an actor with his good looks and skill that he probably would have found a role within an institution like the BBC by now (he'd probably only go for roles that he found 'interesting' though).

"Who are you?" asked the daughter's husband in an aggressive tone.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'll be liaising with the police to try and solve this murder as soon as possible," he said, then added as an after though, "Hopefully I will find the culprit so Rachel and your wife can grieve knowing that the man responsible is being punished for his actions."

"How do you know she's my wife?" he asked accusingly.

"Please," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes and slipping out of character, "It's elementary. You have matching wedding rings and there's a photo of your wedding day on the mantelpiece. Besides, Sgt. Donavan mentioned that Mr Thompson's son-in-law was here."

"My name's Sarah," said the daughter, looking directly at Sherlock for the first time, "And you're right; Mark and I are married. I hope you can solve who killed my father as quickly as you worked that out."

Sherlock nodded.

"Would you mind if my colleague John and I took a quick look around the house?" Sherlock asked Rachel, "It will give me an idea of what sort of man your late husband was, and who would want to hurt him."

"Yes, of course," she answered, a little startled. Sherlock turned on his heel and headed out of the room, followed by a wheezing John, leaving Lestrade in the room to try and comfort a family in grief.

* * *

AN: I'm not personally happy with this chapter. I feel it's a bit of a letdown after the last one but it's important to the plot. Any constructive criticism welcomed. Thanks for being patient with me.


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